


Gaining Bearings

by jerobitaille



Series: Darkness Will Turn to Light [3]
Category: Spartacus Series (TV), Spartacus: War of the Damned
Genre: Episode: s03e09 The Dead and the Dying, Episode: s03e10 Victory, Gap Filler, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-21
Updated: 2013-07-21
Packaged: 2017-12-20 22:56:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,292
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/892873
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jerobitaille/pseuds/jerobitaille
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Life and preparations for battle must continue in the wake of Crixus' funeral.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Gaining Bearings

**Author's Note:**

> The characters aren't mine, I'm just borrowing them. This last fic was originally meant to be a one-shot, but then I got to watching a lot of fanvids that used the scene with Agron hanging from the cross and this happened.

**Gaining Bearings**

Never before has Nasir felt so blessed by the gods. The previous day’s games had made the loss seem real, so it is a greater joy to wake to the sight of his beloved lying safe within his arms once again. Even as Agron shifts restlessly beside him, it feels as though he wakes within a dream. A dream he would not part with for the greatest riches Rome could offer for no treasure could stand more wondrous than Agron’s loving embrace.

 

Though they had taken to their beds long before the rest of the revelers, the night has been long. Even in dreams, Agron is not free from the horrors he endured in the Roman camp. While Agron will not speak of what occurred—nor had Nasir expected it yet—the wounds to his hands tell all. Whoever fastened Agron to the cross did so with the intent of extending humiliation as he slowly faded from life. Those hands which have always clasped his face tight in preparation of a kiss and seen his body to greatest pleasures will now be forever marred by ragged gouges. Structure and strength of the palms are not meant to carry the weight of a body, however supported, so the original holes made by thick iron nails been made larger, tearing between the bones of the middle and fourth fingers. They are wounds Nasir would gladly bear himself if only to ease the tormented look that haunts Agron’s gaze.

 

“You offer welcome warmth after too many nights left cold and bereft.”

 

At the sound of Agron’s quiet rumble, Nasir’s hand stills where it gently strokes his lover’s bare hip. He brushes a light kiss against Agron’s shoulder then lifts his face to meet the other man’s sleepy gaze. “My arms will forever remain open to you. They have never felt so empty as when I believed you dead.”

 

Nasir can see the force of will it takes for Agron to swallow down a sudden rise of emotions. It is as thought a pair of shutters have slammed into place behind his eyes, blocking off much of the light that usually shines from them. And while it pains him to see Agron wounded in a way not so easily remedied, he does his best not to let it show on his face. Agron will not appreciate any coddling, despite the fact that he has been far more tactile than usual since his return. Caring for him will require a final balance in the treatment of the wounds and of the man. At present, Nasir is not certain which causes greater concern.

 

“I still expect to wake and find this nothing more than a fevered dream, concocted as I hang in baking sun,” Agron murmurs as he lightly runs his fingertips over the back of Nasir’s hand. His touch is featherlight, tracing each of Nasir’s fingers. Nasir keeps his hand still to avoid jostling Agron’s hand, all expect his index finger that he strokes lightly alongside Agron’s own. “I had not thought to find you still here.”

 

Nasir furrows his brows and lifts himself up onto his elbow to better see Agron’s face. “Where else would I be?”

 

Agron attempts to turn his head away, so Nasir takes his hand from Agron’s hip and lifts it to cup his cheek. He exerts as little force as possible when turning his love’s face back to his own, not wanting to force the issue if Agron is truly set against it.

 

“It felt as thought heart was ripped from chest when Naevia could not name you among the survivors. That I was but half-living.”

 

“Nasir—”

 

“I do not chastise,” he quickly reassures the German, stroking the pad of his thumb along Agron’s bottom lip. “Only to give depth to the joy felt at your return.... Though it should not have surprised. You have ever been a stubborn ass and would not allow Romans victory while you yet drew breath.”

 

One corner of Agron’s lips twitch, a truly welcome sight. “Still your stubborn ass, I hope.”

 

“Not even the gods could wrest me from your arms, though they may try.”

 

Tears once again brim over in beloved green eyes. Nasir leans forward, pressing his lips to the closest shimmering trail as his own eyes burn with echoing tears. He very nearly manages to contain them until Agron’s arms lift to warp around his waist. Though his touch lacks the familiar warmth of broad palms pressed to his skin, the strength of his embrace and the comfort found within remains unchanged.

 

***

 

While the sounds of the camp would indicate the hour as pre-dawn, full sunlight shines through the seams in their tent. Nasir expects that it will be well past midday before many of them stir. Agron joined them once again in slumber a short time ago and Nasir is glad to let him rest since he knows full well that the German will not allow himself such leisure for long. Agron’s brows are still furrowed in some unspoken anguish, but Nasir is heartened by the fact that the restless twitching from earlier is gone.

 

With renewed light, Nasir studies his lover’s wounds with far more care than he was able the night before. A few hours had passed between the return of the captives and the funeral, but Agron had allotted him little of that time to properly care for his injuries. Instead he had pressed himself into Nasir’s arms and refused to be moved until Spartacus had come to fetch them.

 

Daylight shows the nearly week old gashes to Agron’s chest still red and inflamed, a most troubling sight. He dares not check beneath the bindings wrapped around Agron’s hands till the other man is awake and aware of his ministrations. Given it was the Romans who offered initial care, Nasir fears they are in an equally poor state. Once Agron has awakened, Nasir intends to visit the medicus in order to procure the herbs necessary to properly care for his wounds. It is doubtful Agron will be whole in mind until his hands are once again returned to him.

 

A brief fluttering of eyelids is the only preclude to Agron’s waking. Even at half-mast, Nasir can clearly see the joy struggling to the surface as Agron’s gaze tracks towards his face. Nasir sends a silent prayer to the gods for allowing the chance to behold such expression once again and, with luck, countless times in days untold.

 

“It lightens spirit to see colour to return to cheeks,” Nasir whispers, brushing the back of his fingers against Agron’s stubbled jaw. He cannot prevent the responding grin when Agron leans into his touch. “That hurts are not so great they cannot be overcome.”

 

“You steal thoughts from mind, twisted backwards upon themselves.”

 

Nasir covers Agron’s lips with his own in hopes of bringing life once again to the gravely rasp of Agron’s voice. With the deep breath that follows, he inhales the blessedly familiar scent that still lingers under the stale reek of fear and pain. “Then remove cracked mirror from your sight. Your fingers still possess motion and sensation. Soon enough they will grasp sword again.”

 

Rather than allowing Agron the time to stew, Nasir sets about getting him upright. He drags over a wooden supply chest and drapes one of their furs over it so Agron has something to lean comfortably against. It takes more than a little effort for Agron to get himself settled, but Nasir doesn’t miss the grateful look that flashes across his features when he doesn’t interfere. That expression takes away much of the sting from the half-moon gouges his nails dig into his palms.

 

Nasir’s initial intent to search out the nearest medicus fades when the too lean look of Agron’s cheeks remains even when he’s sitting. Under the pretence of ridding their tent of its cloying atmosphere, Nasir opens one of the tent flaps and, on his return to their bed, scans Agron’s upper body. He had wanted to believe that it a trick of the firelight that Agron appeared somewhat diminished. Hardly wasted or sickly, only.... reduced. A week under harsh Roman care has stripped Agron of mass he had not lost since their leanest times atop Vesuvius. The few pieces of salted meat and jug of wine currently in the tent are hardly enough to restore lost muscle, but it will stand as a first offering.

 

“Not the most appealing breakfast, but it is all I have on offer,” Nasir says as he resettles himself on the bundle of furs that make up their bed. “I will attempt to find a more hearty meal shortly.”

 

Though there is desperate hunger writ across Agron’s face and an echoing gurgle in his stomach, he remains still apart from a few absently twitching fingers. Nasir does his utmost to keep his features impassive as he tears off a piece of the meat and lifts it to Agron’s lips. He had somewhat expected it, but Nasir is still frustrated when Agron’s lips remain sealed. Not even his belly’s loud protestations are enough to coax his lips to part.

 

“It may have been long ago, but I still recall a time when our roles stood reversed.” Nasir attempts to sound casual, arched brow the only evidence he allows to show presented with Agron’s stubbornness. “When I could barely lift head to consume much needed nourishment. The one who aided me offered no teasing remarks, only gentle encouragement.”

 

Agron’s lips part enough for Nasir to place the meat upon his tongue. Then close upon his fingertips before he has time to draw them away. Nasir’s smile is immediate, as is the responding tilt to Agron’s lips.

 

Nasir does not bother with light banter or gossip while they share their sparse meal. Agron is not yet of a mind for such things and Nasir would not fill precious time with such trivialities. The feel of Agron, warm and solid beneath his hands, provides contentment enough. Nasir is quick to notice that Agron keeps one hand upon him at all times, fingers twitching with aborted actions. The pinched look about his features indicates both the frustration and pain that linger beneath the surface. Along with them, the anger he does little to conceal.

 

Movement near the tent opening as he sets aside their empty cup draws Nasir’s attention. He shifts automatically towards his spear, ready to offer resistance, before recalling himself.

 

“Who lingers without?” Nasir calls, voice heavy with frustration at the interruption.

 

A bemused chuckle indicates their visitor’s identity before Spartacus pulls aside the tent flap. “Apologies. I was attempting to determine whether you had yet woken before announcing myself.”

 

“You are ever welcome.” Nasir’s smile is immediate, glad to see the man who had returned Agron to him.

 

Nasir knows that it was no small thing for Spartacus himself to escort Agron back to the camp. Standing as much needed support for Agron, Spartacus had acted not as rebellion leader, but as brother to one who had stood beside him since the very beginning. And, it would seem, remain in that trusted position until the end. Nasir struggles to keep his grin in place as darker thoughts threaten and rises to his feet.

 

“I am to the medicus,” Nasir announces as he snatches up the empty wine jug. “Remain, if you will, for we have not yet had time to discuss what has passed since our army divided.”

 

While he does not give voice to his true desires, Nasir is confident that Spartacus knows Agron well enough to recognize that the stubborn German needs to unburden himself. They have spent half a day returned to each other, yet Nasir only knows of Agron’s ordeal what can be divined from his injuries. That he was mistreated following the battle, Nasir does not doubt. Even excluding the wounds received from crucifixion, Agron’s body is littered with wounds that indicate both a fierce battle and painful interrogation. Yet he does not know to what extent that mistreatment plagues Agron’s thoughts. Standing as brother rather than beloved, Nasir hopes Spartacus may help Agron exercise some of his demons.

 

“I will return shortly,” Nasir murmurs, running his fingers through Agron’s hair to grip the back of his skull. Agron leans back, a contented hum on his lips, as Nasir scratches at his scalp with blunted nails. Nasir tries, and fails, to resist the temptation to cover Agron’s lips with his own, reminding himself once again that it is flesh and blood and not a fevered spectre that sits before him.

 

It is only once he has stepped out into the early morning sun and he is alone with his thoughts that Nasir feels himself waver. He has spent the night acting as a bulwark for Agron’s own uneasy thoughts and has yet been awarded opportunity to fully appreciate that Agron has been returned to him. The grief had vanished the instant his eyes had sighted Agron shuffling alongside Spartacus, to be replaced by more emotions than he can give name to.

 

Emotions that, almost blindly, draw Nasir away from the main body of the camp and to the nearby stream. He needs water to wash away the grime that is still sunk so deeply into Agron’s skin, but that is not what draws his footsteps to the water’s edge. The few that have wakened have not yet made their way to the stream and though the nearest tents are less than fifty paces off, the sound of running water will grant enough privacy.

 

Nasir drops to his knees on the damp stones that line the stream, a sob choking his throat. He digs his fingers into the earth, squeezing his eyes shut to block out the dark images his mind conjures. Of Agron, lashed and nailed bloody to the cross, his legs dangling useless and unable to offer support. He imagines Agron attempting to wrap his bare feet around the vertical beam to push himself up just enough to ease the strain on his shoulders and hands for but a few moments. All while Roman animals no doubt laugh and jeer at those feeble attempts.

 

Strangled sobs give way to a scream barely silenced behind clenched teeth.

 

“Had I wagered coin, I would be a much poorer man now.”

 

Nasir whirls around, the action carrying him to his feet. Behind him, Gannicus lounges casually against a boulder, ever present grin on his face. It is on the tip of Nasir’s tongue to demand explanation for the vague words, but Gannicus offers one before Nasir can draw breath towards action.

 

“Few would have expected you parted from Agron’s side so soon.” There is no recrimination in the Celt’s tone, only mild surprise. Followed by a brief concern. “He is still...?”

 

“Agron is too stubborn to be otherwise. He speaks with Spartacus while I gather medicine and water.”

 

Renewed to purpose, Nasir grabs up the dropped jug from where it lays near his feet. He wanders into the stream just far enough for the water to flow freely and leans over to fill the earthenware pitcher. The entire time, Nasir can feel Gannicus’ eyes on his back. The former gladiator has never seemed like one prone to contemplation, but when Nasir turns back to camp, Gannicus’ eyes remain fixed on him.

 

“Is there anything you require?” Nasir shifts the jug slightly to get a better grip, brow arched in the Celt’s direction.

 

“Nothing required, only idle thoughts of times long past.”

 

The faraway expression on Gannicus’ face is proof enough that his words are true. Nasir has no knowledge of who or what he speaks, and doubts he would even if he were to press for information. After last night’s funeral, Nasir suspects there will be many whose thoughts drift to the past in coming days. Nasir himself is not certain what state he would be in were Agron not safely ensconced in their tent under Spartacus’ watchful eye.

 

“Treasure opportunity presented by the gods,” Gannicus says quietly as Nasir passes. “Agron may think nothing of them, but they must favour him to have returned him to your side. Not all are so fortunate to see love returned from death.”

 

The pain on Gannicus’ face and in his voice is all too real, confusing Nasir. Sibyl has been untouched by recent events, the loss of friends not withstanding. Nasir does not know much of Gannicus’ past beyond his observed interactions with Oenomaus and what he has gleaned through gossip. Nor does he press for information now.

 

Nasir bids the Celt farewell then makes his way back towards their encampment. Much as he wishes to hurry back to Agron’s side, he keeps his pace steady on his way to the medicus. Nasir greets what friends he sees, gladly accepting their words of happiness on his behalf. Each pause grants Spartacus more time to begin the process of drawing poisons from Agron’s mind.

 

As he waits for the medicus to prepare the poultice and herbs necessary for Agron’s care, movement near the edge of the tent draws his attention. Castus. The Cilician’s eyes linger, but thankfully he does not approach. Nasir is sure there are apologies he should make for his behaviour over the past week, but cannot bring himself to yet. In time he will make his peace with Castus and lay to rest whatever it was between them, but that time is not now. Something that the pirate appears to be in agreement with. A simple nod is all that passes between them before Castus fades into the growing crowd.

 

“… with purpose. Caesar laughing in my face as he pressed fucking nail to palm and stole soul from body.”

 

“Your soul yet draws ready breath. It is only your hands that are temporarily lost.”

 

Nasir pauses outside their tent, not wanting to interrupt the much needed conversation. He would prefer if Agron would speak to him of such things, but he is relieved to know that the other man is sharing his burdens with others close to him. Knowing Agron as he does, he had feared the German would keep his thoughts tightly bound within his chest until they threatened to undo him. There is also great likelihood that Spartacus prying open such a tightly sealed door will allow Nasir the chance to wedge it open further in hopes of expelled all dark thoughts that dwell within.

 

“See wounds tended and I have no doubt hands will grip sword once again.” Spartacus’ words are firm, all but daring Agron to offer protest. Even only able to see Spartacus from behind, Nasir can clearly envision a challenging smirk on the Thracian’s lips.

 

“The gods will it,” Agron grunts.

 

Arms encumbered, Nasir shoulders his way into the tent. Agron remains seated against the chest, his bandaged hand resting upon his thighs with palms raised as though in supplication. The smile that lights Agron’s face upon his entrance warms Nasir’s heart.

 

“And loving hands will see it so.” Nasir crosses to their makeshift bed, leaning over to press his lips to Agron’s before settling himself down beside the larger man. He carefully places the jug upon the ground within easy reach and smiles as Agron lays his closest hand on his knee.

 

Spartacus grins and rises from the box he has been using as a seat. “I will leave you to it.”

 

It speaks more to Agron’s mind than the state of his injuries that he makes no attempt to stall Spartacus’ departure. The last time wounds received in battle had temporarily prevented him fighting—a dislocated shoulder received when bodily tackling a Roman from his mount during a raid—Agron had spent much of the night talking strategy with Spartacus and Crixus until the former had managed to sneak a sleeping draught into his wine. Agron had raged loudly the next morning, but Nasir had simply been glad to see the deep bruising under his eyes faded somewhat. This time, Nasir fears more for the shadows that lurk behind his eyes. He worries that they will only grow darker as injuries prevent him from so much as grasping sword for quite some time. Crassus will not wait long to avenge his son, and though it is far too early to predict the particulars, Nasir is certain a great conflict will be upon them long before Agron’s hands have had opportunity to heal.

 

“I will see Caesar fucking dead for this.”

 

The fierce growl that has been absent from Agron’s voice since their reunion has at last made reappearance. There is an added edge to it now, brought on by recent events. Nasir looks down at Agron’s hand, laid bare upon his knee, and feels an equal desire take shape in his own heart. As he had feared, the wound is red and inflamed. He gently lifts Agron’s hand and places a kiss to the heel of his palm.

 

“A task I will gladly aid.”

 

***

 

The camp is full of noise and activity by the time Nasir has finished binding Agron’s injuries. Spilling fresh blood was necessary to aid in the cleansing, leaving Agron somewhat drowsy upon completion. Enough so, that Nasir is able to convince him to take further rest. Nasir takes advantage of Agron’s pliancy, knowing that it will not remain so for long. Once his head has cleared and movement no longer brings immediate pain, Agron will make attempt to return to his duties at Spartacus’ side. And while he would not have Agron languish in injury, he would have him take time to properly heal. Keeping Agron abed for a single day will be challenge enough let alone attempting to keep him from the coming battle. At present, Nasir only plans to carry out the former. It would be far simpler to cleave Agron’s head from his body than undertake the latter.

 

Instead, he turns his attention towards finding a way to allow Agron to stand alongside Spartacus and the rest on the battlefield. It will also mean Nasir’s own return to battle since he does not intent to allow Agron’s desire to see him safe prevent him from fighting at his side. In the years since the desperate group of slaves had invaded his former dominus’ villa, only twice have he and Agron taken separate paths. Both times that separation has threatened to become permanent. For Nasir, a Roman sword in the woods surrounding Vesuvius while Agron faced what should have been certain execution upon the cross within Crassus’ encampment.

 

The gods have made themselves quite clear.

 

Through the opening of their tent, Nasir glimpses a sword and shield propped up against a wagon wheel. The sword rests at an angle, crossing behind the round shield so that nearly a foot of the sword protrudes beyond the edge. Were the two fastened together, the resulting weapon would provide both protection and a way to attack. Further modified, the shield could easily be lashed to a man’s arm to prevent it being torn from grasp.

 

Nasir runs his fingers through Agron’s rumpled hair, tempted to banish such thoughts when a sudden movement causes the other man’s face to crease in pain. There has been enough blood and battle in Agron’s life; he does not need to seek out more. Yet Nasir knows the living death Agron will find himself in should he not be able to stand with Spartacus when the time comes.

 

So though every instinct within Nasir shouts for him to take this last opportunity at safety, he makes plans to call on one of the blacksmiths that afternoon. He will not tell Agron of his intentions, not yet. Not until his new weapon is complete and Nasir is certain it will hold up to Agron’s exuberant fighting style. He does not want to get the German’s hopes up unnecessarily.

 

“You are thinking loud enough to wake the dead,” Agron groans, pressing his face into Nasir’s thigh.

 

Nasir scratches his scalp once again, a smile tugging at his lips when Agron groans contentedly. “I do no such thing.”

 

A huff of amusement acts as initial response until Agron turns his head so he is able to peer up at Nasir. “What became of the breakfast I was promised?”

 

Strained though his voice is, Nasir is heartened by the fact that Agron is making an attempt at levity. He is not fool enough to expect a sudden return to form now that Agron’s ordeal is over, but he will gladly partake in these lighter moments whenever possible until they outstrip the lingering gloom.

 

“By this point more a midday meal than breakfast,” Nasir counters as he climbs to his feet. He hesitates for a moment before reaching down to grasp Agron’s elbow. “I believe I saw Halfrida overseeing one of the cookfires. Sight of you will lift her heart and fill your bowl.”

 

Agron wobbles uncertainly once he regains his feet, but it lasts only for a moment. Nasir remains close in case assistance is needed, though the stubborn set of Agron’s jaw even as he wavers slightly tells him it is unlikely. The cookfire Nasir had seen the aging German woman manning is not far from their tent and the enthusiastic greeting Agron receives once he is in sight removes any concern he had of leaving his lover in her care once they have eaten their fill.

 

The presence of Lugo and Saxa offer Agron a welcome distraction and allows Nasir to slip away under the pretence of seeing to duties left unfinished. He leaves the three conversing hotly in their mother tongue and makes his way towards the weapons cache in search of a sword and shield.


End file.
